Dirty Window
by Cheloya
Summary: Sequel to Disintegration. Papa D x Vesca. Vesca is determined to fix a few things.


Disclaimer: Characters belong to Matsuri Akino. No money is made from this work of fanfiction.

Notes: Sequel to 'Disintegration'. Implications of the gay kind. Papa D x Vesca.

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**Dirty Window**

- - -

D sat in the center of the apartment he had rented, eyes directed toward the window, but not focused upon it; not the smudged filth that clung to the glass, nor anything visible in the open air beyond it. The leaves and tendrils of his herbs stirred gently in a fitful breeze; they were strange and quiet, today, sympathetic to their master's mood.

He had left his father's petshop before the new day had dawned. A new day. He had been too withdrawn to note with any accuracy the passage of time.

Despite their sympathies, his herbs were beginning to wilt. New York was an inhospitable place in summer as well as winter. He shifted his focus toward them.

"My apologies," he told them softly, and listened with shame to the defeat in his own voice. "It is thoughtless of me to--"

There was a loud thud against the door to his apartment, and D stopped speaking abruptly. He turned wide eyes toward the sound, annoyed and almost curious despite himself. And then, just as suddenly, there were several more muted thuds.

Was someone... kicking his door? D's brow furrowed in mild confusion, lips pursing in the beginnings of a temper as the now-unmistakable _thump, thump, thump_ of a sneaker against thick wood made their dull report through the small apartment. Then, "For Christ's sake, Dee, open the door, would ya? I'm gonna drop all this-- ah, shit!"

A loud clatter, and muted cursing. D spent a few moments staring at the door, lips parted in a way that he was sure, seconds later, was quite unattractive. He wet them tentatively, and peered through the fish-eye. He could see Vesca's shoulders bobbing around near the floor, and hear the solid clank of metal against metal. _What on earth...?_

"Something you wanted, Mr University Student?"

He could almost feel the heat of Vesca's ire through the door. Surprising, to feel that warmth in the back of his own throat, in the pit of his belly, once again. "Am I, or am I not, gonna fix that motherfucking window of yours?"

D's lips pursed again, furiously, and he wrenched the door open, away from Vesca's shoulder, and the tools he had been holding clattered to the floor once again. "_Language!_" he hissed. "You will do _nothing_ if you continue to speak in that manner!"

Vesca stood, various implements stuffed under his arm. His nose was creased with the force of his scowl. "Who's doing who a favour, here?" He retorted. "Let me in already, will ya?"

D could only feel a sense of outrage at this churlish human, determinedly bullying his way back into-- _inside_. "I will not! You are rude and inconsiderate. You haven't even the courtesy to call ahead and notify me when--"

Vesca's expression went abruptly flat. "Whatever, Dee. Get outta the way. I'm here to do what I said I'd do. That's all."

D stared at the American, uncertain and dismayed. "I do not wish to let you in," he said, more quietly, and was surprised when Vesca closed his eyes as though a stab of pain had scythed through him. The youth took a moment to steady himself, and when he opened his eyes again, they were regretful, though his voice was still tight.

"I get that," he said, and D's violet eyes hardened in challenge. He continued quickly, "I do. I just... dammit, Dee, I just want to fix that window. Like I said I would. Just fix it."

_Fix it._

D stared hard at the young American, awkward and ashamed, angry and apologetic, and could not help the warmth that twined through his being, could not help the forgiveness that spilled forth from his heart, if not his lips.

"Not all things broken can be mended, Mr University Student," he admonished in clipped tones. "But you may try, if you wish."

Vesca's sudden grin, the blue of his eyes - tore at him.

"I do," he said, with absolute certainty, and stepped forward at the same time D stepped back.

A strange dance, he observed as Vesca drifted past into the living area, heading straight for the window. But perhaps that suited the American, suited them both. At times in opposition, at others, in perfect synchrony.

The memory of hands, large and calloused and so _gentle_ despite their almost bruising force, the memory of lips and tongue, soft velvet tracery against his earlobe--

The memories seared him still, and he was not yet certain of whether he was warmed or burned by them.

"--them more, you know? Dee?"

"What?" The word burst out of him, and they stared at each other for a few seconds. D wondered at the strangled sensation in his throat, wondered if he dreaded or longed for Vesca to recognise what undoubtedly burned plainly in his alien, violet eyes.

"I said," Vesca repeated carefully, "These things look half dead. You oughta water them more." He gestured to the herbs, removed now from their apparently perilous perch upon the window sill. D swallowed, and glared, resenting the familiarity, resenting the American for even _being_ here.

"I have been away for a number of days," he said, shortly. "They receive adequate attention." Though no more than adequate for days, now, he grieved in quiet apology to the plants. Their leaves flickered, ostensibly in the breeze. They bore him no ill will.

Plants were kinder than animals.

Vesca looked annoyed, and then abashed, and finally turned to the window without saying anything at all. He reached up and fiddled for a few moments with the runners, and the latch, and then he said, "Where'd you go?"

_To visit my son, _and _none of your concern_ rose simultaneously to bitter his tongue, and he sighed explosively instead. "I have family nearby," he extrapolated. "It has been long since I have visited them."

Such a relief it would be, to speak to another of his son. To express the grief he felt, at being unable to raise the child himself, the hurt that his own father did not trust him enough to allow him that thing that had come to matter most. Such relief, to weep over those quiet, respectful hardly-arguments with his father, the gentle suggestions he had put to his son to rebut the elder D's infinitely colder teachings.

He wished desperately to tell someone, anyone, of the beauty in his dear son's mismatched eyes.

"Dee?"

Vesca's tone was soft, blue eyes darker with some unknown emotion, and D realised that his eyes were, in fact, stung with bitter tears. He straightened swiftly, and strode to the fishtank, to run the tip of a finger along the dorsal fin of a hungry fish. His stomach felt heavy and cold. He had neglected his pets terribly, in the days that had so swiftly passed.

The silence hung weighty in the air as Vesca opened his mouth, closed it, and turned back to the window frame. D fed his fish in silence, though he hoped his apology to them was plain in his bearing. They were not as forgiving as the plants had been, but they were far more forgetful. They knew that they were sated now, more than that they had gone hungry before.

Vesca made a sound of satisfaction, and grinned as he demonstrated the smooth glide of the window pane over its runners. "What'd I tell you? You gotta stop worryin' about breaking those damn nails of yours, Dee."

He was sure he ought to be irritated, at that, but there was something in Vesca's face that told him, something in his bearing that let D know: Vesca remembered the sharpness of those nails down his back, their grating over the heavy cloth of a shirt he would surely never wear again. Vesca remembered.

The fish were content, fat and lazily swimming circles in their tank.

Vesca remembered, and he had come back.

D turned to face him.

"You are very kind, Mister University Student," he teased with a smirk. "Would you care for some tea, after your hard work?"

Vesca blustered and turned pink, and said, "Not like it was _hard_, Dee," and sat down on D's sofa. "And anyway, I told you I would, didn't I?"

"You did," D replied, and appreciated the honesty, appreciated the integrity that this man had to offer, would always have to offer, no matter where he went and what he did. Appreciated that Vesca would always do as he said he would do.

_Fix it._

_I'm sorry._

_Like I said I would._

"Dee?"

Vesca watched him from the sofa. His shoulders were tense; he was still afraid – of his own impulses, of D's anger? D was uncertain. Still uncertain. He was not meant to feel this way.

"...shall we go out? There is a lovely cafe that has opened... it has the most wonderful _pan au chocolat_..."

Vesca sighed, and grinned, and looked as though he couldn't help it much. "It's always about the chocolate, huh, Dee? Don't forget your keys this time." An awkward moment, snatched up and dashed against the wall by the hasty addition, "How'd you get back in? Your folks have spares?"

D smiled, taking up the keys and placing them very obviously inside his sleeve. "I left the window open," he offered as he tucked his hair behind his ears. "Come, Vesca. They will become busy in an hour or so, and I do not wish for them to be sold out."

Vesca laughed this time, and stood, raising his arm as though he would clap D on the back (the very thought made the Chinese man bristle indignantly) and shoving both hands in his pockets, instead. "Yup," he mused, still grinning in a way that spelled relief more than amusement. "All about the chocolate."

"Not _all_, Mr University Student," D admonished, and fluttered out the door with a genteel titter of laughter. "Their chai is also quite exquisite."


End file.
